“Merry Christmas, boss!”
Your words startle Unknown from his work. For one thing, you're practically yelling, when you know that he requires silence to think well— it's as if everything he tells you goes in one ear and out the other. Moreover, he was by no means expecting you to try and celebrate that godforsaken holiday today. Unknown was elated— or as close to elated as he's ever going to get while that redhead is still breathing— when you chose not to bother him on Christmas morning. He should have known that you'd have something else up your sleeve. You truly never fail to annoy him.
“It's not Christmas anymore, prince(ss),” he reminds you in a syrupy tone. “You must be confused.” This would be warning enough for somebody with a normal set of self preservation instincts— sadly, you appear to possess very few of these, because you don’t seem remotely deterred.
“What?” You ask, sounding genuinely confused. ”How is it not Christmas? You took me on the eighteenth of March, right? And I've been counting off every single day— it has been 282 days; I’m sure of it! So how is it not Christmas?”
Unknown turns around to face you now. He gets the feeling that he isn't going to get very much work done if you're planning to continue being noisy, and (although he'd never admit it aloud) this conversation is shaping up to be far more interesting than some numbers on a screen. “You must have messed it up,” he offers, unable to contain his glee at the idea. Serves you right, for trying to waste his time like this.
“No, you messed it up,” you pout. Unknown wonders what he’d have to do to instill a healthy fear of himself in you. “Because you took away my phone. If I still had it, I would just know the date without even having to make tally marks on a napkin, and—”
“Give me the napkin.” Unknown is going to nip this in the bud right now. If you don’t have anything to write on, then you won’t have any way to record the date, and you won’t try and ambush him with poorly-timed holiday celebrations. If you wanted to plan parties, then you should have just gone into that apartment in the first place— now that you’re with Unknown, you’re going to have to start playing by his rules. Although, if you haven’t figured that out after so many months by his side, he’s beginning to think that you’re a bit of a lost cause.
“And now you're taking my planner?” You regard him with wide eyes. “This is too cruel. How do you expect me to be productive when I don't know what day it is?” But there's this gleam in your eyes that tells him you're just playing around.
“You never knew what day it was, sweetheart,” he points out, “I got you on the nineteenth of March, so you’ve been counting wrong this whole time.” Unknown doesn't think he'll be forgetting that date any time soon. It would have been the day when his plan was set in motion, if you had only followed his instructions.
“Okay, fine, you can have it, since it's wrong anyway,” you grumble, “That's actually good, since I don't have any wrapping paper for your present. Two birds with one stone.” You pick up something you've left sitting on the couch and wrap the napkin— which is, indeed, covered with hundreds of pencil marks— around it before handing the entire parcel to Unknown.
“What is this?” He demands.
“Your Christmas gift,” you explain, suddenly serious. “I wanted to get you one of those 'world's greatest boss' mugs, but since somebody won't let me order anything online, I had to make you something instead. Open it.”
“You don't get to order me around,” he warns, “Try again.”
You roll your eyes before establishing yourself on his lap, where you should probably remain, if you had time to procure any kind of gift for him without his knowledge. Clearly, he hasn’t been keeping you under proper supervision. “We're doing this now? Really? Can’t we have a single normal conversation, just one time?” You pout at him. Apparently, Unknown's glare is the only answer you need to any of your sundry questions, because after a bit of grumbling, you seem to acquiesce. “Fine, fine. Could you please open it, please? Thank you.”
“Better,” Unknown decides. Truth be told, he is a little bit curious— he's never let you out of his sight for longer than a few minutes. How did you manage to put together a gift for him without his knowledge? Whatever it is feels solid and sturdy. He pulls the hastily-crumpled napkin off of the item in question and holds it up to the light of his monitors to get a better look.
“It's a bracelet,” you explain, “I know you wear them, so I thought you'd like it better than anything else that I could make.”
Unknown turns the bracelet over in his hands. It consists of a series of interlocking brown and white squares, all of which are sharp and thick. Upon closer inspection, Unknown discovers nutrition information on one of the white squares. Is it made from candy wrappers? “You gave me garbage.”
“Upcycled garbage, yes,” you nod enthusiastically. “I've been stealing your candy wrappers and washing the insides for months, you know. I was going to make you a whole jewelry set with a necklace and everything, but I didn't have time, since you're always watching me like a hawk. This is all I could manage.”
Unknown has no fucking clue why you would waste your time on something like this. You had every opportunity to let the Yuletide pass unmarked, but instead, you spent weeks collecting trash, cleaning it, and folding it into an ugly piece of jewelry, just so you'd have something to give him. Seeing as he's never received anything for Christmas before, he doesn't know if the gifts are usually this underwhelming— but he does know what your intentions were. “Next time you want to get me something, you can just try being quiet.”
You grin, like you don't care how much he hates your gift. Like you don't expect any thanks for all the unnecessary work that you put into the stupid thing. Like you didn't do it for him to thank you— you did it because you wanted to brighten his day, even if you weren’t necessarily very successful. “Next time, tell me that before Christmas so that I can take it into account when I'm thinking of a gift.”
Unknown rolls his eyes at you and spins his chair around so that he's facing the screen again. This has been an interesting diversion, but he doesn't have the luxury of taking long breaks from the pursuit of his revenge. “I just told you. Won’t you remember?”
“No,” you grumble playfully, “Since now I don't have anywhere to write it down.”
Unknown shoves the crumpled napkin back into your hand. ”Merry Christmas, prince(ss),” he coos, patting you on the head. It’s a generous gift, all things considered— he was seriously planning on throwing that napkin away.
“Gee, thanks.” You might sound sarcastic, but you still pocket the napkin, just as he thought you would. Thankfully, after this, you give him the peace and quiet that he needs to make some progress with his work.
It isn't until you're snoring softly across the room hours later, unwilling to be separated from Unknown even while you sleep, that he finds himself absently reaching for the bracelet as he works, running his fingers over the sharp edges and smooth tops of the interlocking squares. He'd never be caught dead wearing it— it's made of garbage, for fuck's sake— but Unknown will reluctantly admit (if only to himself) that he likes the feel of it. As far as first-ever Christmas presents go, he supposes that it isn't too terrible, though he'd never say as much to you.
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